It began with a single horn blown from the watchtower above Potter Castle. The long, rolling sound echoed across the snow-covered valley, bouncing off the cliffs and trees. It was the signal Harry had ordered: a call to celebration. The child of Narnia's rulers—Sirius Gryffindor—had been reborn, and Harry would not let the moment pass without rejoicing.
For the first time in months, laughter returned to the cold wind of the North.
Harry stood atop the castle steps, his emerald eyes gazing over the settlement. "Seven days," he declared to the assembled crowd. "Seven days of warmth, food, and festivity—for every man, woman, and child of Narnia. Let the birth of Sirius be the beginning of joy."
Cheers erupted. Children screamed and ran. Someone began to beat a drum.
Inside the large hall of the old keep, cooks—both wildlings and Essosi—scrambled to prepare what would become the most lavish feast Narnia had ever seen. Smoke and spice filled the air. The wildlings, who once knew only how to roast meat on sticks, now marveled at the strange new concoctions emerging from iron ovens and clay pots.
"Try this," said Ashla, one of the Essosi women who'd once served as a royal chef in a distant city-state. She handed a steaming bowl of orange-glazed hare to a wide-eyed wildling boy. "It's sweet. Made with fruit syrup and salted meat."
The boy blinked. "No fireburn?"
"No fireburn," Ashla laughed. "This is what we call… real food."
Meanwhile, Harry oversaw the food duplication spell behind the scenes in the alchemy room he had built beneath the castle. From an old Black family journal, he had discovered the secrets of duplicating food—not conjuring it, which was impossible, but perfectly mirroring it using an alchemic spell.
A bowl of hot venison stew, a platter of herb-roasted potatoes, and bread stuffed with garlic and cheese—each dish duplicated a thousandfold. The spell was etched into enchanted plates, and as one emptied, another filled itself nearby.
Harry chuckled to himself as he watched the process. "Sirius, my son," he whispered, smiling, "you brought a feast greater than this world has ever seen."
By the second day, the settlement of Narnia swelled to over five hundred souls, with many newcomers coming from nearby forests and villages just to join in the celebration. Every home burned bright with firelight. Every stomach was full.
Visitors lined up to see the newborn—a small, wild-haired infant wrapped in soft woolen cloth, who already squirmed and grabbed with curious little hands.
The first to visit were the Essosi settlers, who bowed respectfully at the door of Potter Castle and were welcomed inside by Lyanna herself. They came bearing gifts wrapped in silk, carved from wood and stone, or filled with sweetmeats and dried spices.
One older Essosi woman, Marla, knelt before Lyanna. "May this child grow strong and wise," she said in broken Northern tongue, "and may he never hunger, never fear."
Lyanna smiled, her eyes warm but tired. "Thank you, Marla. You have cared for us all as if we were kin."
Later came the wildlings, slower and more hesitant. Gift-giving was not their custom, but they had watched the Essosi and would not be outdone.
One by one, they approached with fur-lined cloaks, carved toys made of driftwood, antler rattles, and even a stuffed bear made from old woolen scraps. A boy of nine, his nose red with cold, stepped forward and offered a single stone he'd polished to a shine. "It's smooth, like the sky," he said. "I found it for him."
Harry knelt and took the stone. "Thank you. He'll keep this near his bed. You've given him his first treasure."
By the fifth day, music filled the snowy roads of Narnia. Fiddlers played in the great square, and wildling drummers joined Essosi flutists in a clashing, lively rhythm that echoed all the way to the cliffs.
Lyanna, still weak from childbirth, sat bundled on a cushioned chair near the hall's fire, Sirius nestled in her arms. Her eyes roamed the scene beyond the open doors—dancing, feasting, people of different worlds laughing together.
"You've changed them," she said to Harry softly.
Harry glanced at her, his arm behind her shoulders. "No. They changed for themselves. All they needed was the chance."
Lyanna turned her gaze to the baby, who blinked up at her, his green eyes bright. "He'll never be hungry. He'll never be cold. And he'll grow up knowing both love and peace."
A shout from outside drew their attention.
One of the wildling hunters burst through the gate, a grin stretched across his windburned face. "More people comin' in from the south! They heard about the baby and the food!"
Harry stood. "Let them in. All of them. Narnia is open."
That night, under the shimmering lights of the aurora that danced above the mountains, a final song was sung in the name of Sirius Gryffindor. Children tossed snowflakes into the sky, couples danced in the warmth of braziers, and Lyanna whispered promises to the sleeping child.
And at the edge of the clearing, where the weirwood tree stood tall in silence, Winter the dragon curled around its roots, watching over them all.
The sun had barely risen over the snow-draped pines of Narnia when Harry stepped into the deep chamber beneath Potter Castle—his private sanctum, magically reinforced with enchantments that warded off intruders and muffled all sound. The chamber was illuminated by glowing orbs suspended in midair, casting a warm golden hue over the magical trunk that stood in the center.
The trunk wasn't an ordinary container. It was a seven-layered, magically expanded vault, he got from Gringotts. The goblins had transferred every artifact, relic, and treasure from his inheritance into this dimensional space. He'd barely scratched the surface so far, only ever retrieving gold and books.
But today, he wanted to explore.
Harry drew his wand and tapped the silver crest on the trunk's surface.
The trunk emitted a low hum as it unfolded, the first layer revealing a spiral staircase descending into the depths of magical space. He stepped down slowly, each level greeting him with different textures and aromas—aged leather, polished steel, ancient parchment, potion fumes, and cold gold.
When he reached the third level, he paused. This was where the lesser vaults had been arranged. A shimmering, transparent plaque hovered in the air, bearing names etched in old family script:
Orion Black
Arcturus Black
Alphard Black
Charlus Potter
Fleamont Potter
Sirius Black
James Potter
Dorea Black-Potter
And many others. Harry counted twenty-two vault names, including two labeled only by initials—"B.B." and "M.P."
"Many of these names I don't even recognize," Harry muttered, brushing his fingers along the edges of the floating plaques. "How much did they hide away…"
He moved deeper into the glowing storage halls, past towering magical ingredients collection and glass cases of potions. On a nearby platform sat gold and silver bars, some nearly the length of his forearm, carefully stacked and sealed with the sigils of both Gringotts and the Ministry of Magic. Ancient dinnerware carved from gold, goblets studded with sapphires, and enchanted silver knives that never dulled were arranged in display drawers.
He picked up a dagger and tested the weight in his hand. "Still perfectly balanced," he murmured. "Enchanted silver. Probably good against werewolves."
Behind another shelf were racks of armor—some pristine and gleaming, others dented and scarred from battles long past. One had a crest Harry had never seen before: a raven perched on a wand, wrapped in serpents. A forgotten Black cousin, perhaps?
It was then that something odd caught his eye—three small leather satchels, dusty and tucked behind a row of enchanted scroll tubes. He reached out and unlatched the first one.
Inside, nestled in soft red velvet, was a camera—a magical one, sleek and made of dark wood with silver trims. The lenses glinted in the orb-light. When he opened the other two pouches, they contained similar models, each uniquely marked with initials:
S.B.
F.P.
A.B.
"Sirius Black. Fleamont Potter. Alphard Black?" Harry blinked. "They each had magical cameras?"
He ran his fingers along the mechanisms. Despite the dust and age, they were remarkably well preserved. The enchantments had faded slightly, but the craftsmanship was exquisite.
"I could fix this," Harry said aloud. "We could finally take pictures of the castle… of Sirius."
He carefully laid them out on a rune-marked table and pulled out a jar of clockmaker's oil, phoenix feather dust, and a few drops of Dragon blood—all potent magical reagents. With slow, deliberate care, he whispered the repair incantations passed down through the Black family: "Restituere Mechanica."
One by one, the cameras shimmered as the dust was sucked away, gears aligned, and enchantments reawakened. The lenses sparked with life.
A soft click sounded from the one marked "S.B." and a small magical roll emerged with an old photograph: a young Sirius Black grinning at the camera, shirtless, holding a bottle of firewhisky, and clearly up to mischief.
Harry let out a low laugh. "Typical."
He flipped the camera over and whispered, "Chronos invertus."
The camera shimmered again—and then projected a flickering image of Sirius spinning in a chair, sticking his tongue out at the lens. A magical recording—blurry and faded, but intact.
Harry's voice turned soft. "Maybe one day… I'll show little Sirius the man he's named after."
He carried the restored cameras up to the surface, wrapping them gently in dragon hide and placing them on a table in the solar chamber.
That evening, as Lyanna fed their son beside the fire, Harry showed her the photograph of young Sirius.
Lyanna smiled warmly. "He's exactly as I imagined him."
"Chaotic, loud, and loyal," Harry said with pride. "And now, his name will live again."
"Do you think we could take a photo of our Sirius?" she asked.
Harry looked at the camera and smiled. "Tomorrow. We'll take one beneath the weirwood. The first picture of a Gryffindor born in this world."
The snow fell softly over Narnia, a gentle, whispering blanket that hushed the village beneath a layer of white serenity. Inside Potter Castle, however, the halls were alive with warmth, laughter, and an air of celebration—not from music or feasting, but from something more enduring.
Harry Griffindor stood in the main corridor, adjusting the placement of a newly printed photograph on the stone wall. It was nearly six feet tall, stretched over a polished wooden frame. The image captured a moment from just two days ago: Lyanna sitting on the wide fur-lined sofa, holding baby Sirius close to her chest, her eyes bright and her smile unguarded. The infant clutched her finger with both hands, his wild black hair sticking up in every direction.
Harry stepped back and admired it.
"I'll never tire of that one," he said aloud, mostly to himself. "That smile… it makes this place feel like home."
Over the next few days, Harry had become something of a portrait master. He would carry the enchanted camera with him wherever he went, calling over villagers, workers, friends, and students, asking them to pose—some stiff and awkward, others joyful and radiant. The result was a gallery unlike anything the North had ever seen.
There was a portrait of the entire kitchen crew, framed beside the castle's entrance to the dining hall. Old Marla, the round-faced cook from Essos, stood at the center with her rolling pin raised in triumph, flanked by wildling boys now apprenticing under her. One of them, Eik, had flour smudged across his cheek and a sheepish grin.
Near the nursery door, Harry had hung a series of smaller photographs: one of baby Sirius yawning, another of him wrapped in a snow fox fur blanket, and one where Winter, the mighty white dragon, curled his massive head protectively near the child, his emerald eyes half-closed.
Lyanna had cried when she saw that one.
"It's beautiful," she whispered, touching the frame. "I never thought I'd have this. A home… a family… memories."
Harry placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You deserve it all."
Another set of portraits captured the village of Narnia from above, taken from the back of Winter as he soared overhead. The snow-covered rooftops, curling chimney smoke, and narrow paths through the woods were captured in dazzling clarity. One photo showed the schoolhouse, with children pouring out during a break, their fur coats bouncing as they ran, wildling and Essosi alike, laughing together.
In the school's main hall, Harry placed a photo of Lyanna teaching, a charcoal stick in her hand as she pointed to the board. Her expression was firm yet kind, and several young faces in the crowd were bright with understanding.
"She'll be proud of this," Harry said to himself as he cast a Preservus charm over the frame. "And when Sirius grows up, he'll see what she built."
One morning, Harry gathered everyone working in Potter Castle—from the cleaning staff to the gardeners, from the smiths to the child-minders—and asked them to assemble in the great hall.
"What's this about, Lord Griffindor?" asked Joren, a carpenter from the wildling clans, nervously adjusting his leather apron.
"No work today?" said Yena, an Essosi girl who managed the guest rooms, clearly puzzled.
Harry smiled. "Today, we make history. I want a portrait of all of you—the people who built this home, who cared for Lyanna, who looked after little Sirius. You are family now."
There was laughter, a few awkward coughs, and plenty of straightening of tunics and brushing off of snow.
Winter, curious and amused, peeked one golden eye through a massive open window, creating a gust of cold air that made everyone shriek and laugh.
Harry positioned the camera, backed away, and tapped the shutter charm.
Click.
The photograph developed in minutes—one of the largest yet. Dozens of people stood on the great staircase, with Lyanna at the top holding baby Sirius, Harry beside her, arms proudly crossed. Everyone beamed.
"It's perfect," Harry said. "We'll place this right here."
And so they did. The entire great hall now held a monumental portrait—a testament to the family they had formed.
In the evenings, visitors to the castle would wander the halls in awe, pointing at the photos and whispering about how strange and wonderful it was to see people frozen in time, forever smiling.
"Magic," they'd say.
But Harry knew better. It wasn't the magic in the camera that mattered. It was the lives behind the lens—the laughter, the unity, the peace they had forged from nothing.
And as he sat by the fire that night, Lyanna dozing beside him, baby Sirius cradled between them, Harry looked at the last photograph he had taken—a simple one of the three of them, just a few hours ago.
"I think," he whispered, "this is the first time I feel like I have real family."
Author's Note:
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Beuwulf